


cross swords and hope to die

by wintercelestial



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pre-Fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:40:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25375558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintercelestial/pseuds/wintercelestial
Summary: in a (maybe) friendly spar, lucifer thinks he’s met his match and goes angel to save face. diavolo gets his own ass beat because he’s too busy being the surprised pikachu meme.
Relationships: Diavolo/Lucifer (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 110





	cross swords and hope to die

**Author's Note:**

> i have no idea what angel lucifer wore so he’s getting the same clothes as simeon LMAO

They call him heaven’s finest, and they’re right.

Lucifer sheathes his sword as the other angel bows in acknowledgement of their defeat, retreating from the arena as a smattering of applause rises from the stands.

His brow is dry; not a sweat broken or strand of black hair out of place. 

“Amazing! Not that I expected any less from the Celestial Realm’s best, of course.”

Lucifer turns at the sound of avid clapping and a booming voice that has lately begun to grate on his nerves, and more so in these visits of late where he’s not sure anymore if their purpose is business or pleasure.

The demon prince stands tall even in his lazy slouch of a walk, wings untucked and skin exposed beneath the jewellery that adorns him. He spreads his hands almost sheepishly at the forwardness of his own compliment.

Lucifer notices Diavolo is alone and unsupervised, save for the stoic butler in tow, and then everything clicks together in a way that makes him want to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Plying the archangel Michael with sweet tidbits in exchange for an unhindered stroll in the grounds. Shameless, but it’s to be expected from creatures as impure as demons, nevertheless.

“If you have lost your way,” Lucifer says plainly, fingers tightening on the scabbard in his hand, “I would be more than happy to request Simeon to escort you to the gates.”

It irks him slightly that Diavolo looks barely affronted by his words, even grinning back at him with a smile that a lower-ranked angel would have mistaken for Celestial Realm sun.

“Oh, Lucifer, why be like that?”

His own name rolls off that tongue far more comfortably than Lucifer likes.

“Barbatos and I were watching you from the tower’s window and we simply thought to tell you your swordsmanship is splendid.”

By the minute twitch in Barbatos’s expression, Lucifer safely assumes there was not so much a ‘we’ than there was an ‘I’. His lips purse in a line, torn between disgust at being the subject of a demon’s attention and the want to humbly acknowledge his talent. Pride is a rather… unbecoming trait.

“Don’t think sweetening your tone will sway my opinion of you,” he says nonchalantly. “But I will, however, accept your words all the same.”

The angels scattered throughout the stands watch the exchange in captivated silence, breaths held as Lucifer spins on his heel so the smattering of pink on his cheeks can’t be seen.

The rejection seems to provoke a sense of alarm in Diavolo’s lax, child-like nature. Gold eyes widen for the most fleeting of seconds, the fine chains across his chest clinking like chimes as he reaches out for the angel.

“Lucifer, wait,” he calls, and Lucifer thinks the apprehension he can hear is well-deserved. While Diavolo’s presence may be tolerated here for nothing more than political reasons, it’s certainly not welcomed and he should do well to remember his place.

Lucifer shoots him a cool glance over his shoulder. Dismissal is poised on the tip of his tongue when the realisation of Diavolo’s true source of nervousness clouts him like a wing to the face.

The demon prince bounces on the balls of his feet, earnest in his visage as he clasps his hands together in an almost laughable rendition of a prayer.

“Lucifer,” he says with shining eyes, not at all unlike a hopeful young angel, “can I interest you in a sparring match with me?”

Ah. How it feels to be brash and naïve, biting off more than one can chew.

Lucifer draws his blade, the gold sun overhead illuminating the silver steel.

It should be a sin for a demon to cross blades with the Celestial Realm’s finest and live. It should also be a sin to enjoy it the way Diavolo is, beaming so much his fangs show and the corners of his eyes crinkle.

Sparks almost fly as their swords screech along the length of each other in a forceful parry and twist. They dance along the outskirts of the arena in a flurry of white celestial robes and black wings tipped with gold, as evenly matched as Lucifer has never, ever been before.

Diavolo swings his sword in an arc, only to be met with jarring block after block after block that fends him off like he’s a mere insect. Blood thunders in time to his steps and his breath howls in the space between his ears.

Lucifer’s appearance is still pristine and untouched. He’ll give Diavolo credit for his skill with a blade, and an unfamiliar one borrowed from the armoury at that, but he wonders if that feeling in his stomach is thrill or unease at being challenged.

“In the Devildom, did you know there’s only one other demon who has bested me?”

A slow blink of surprise has Lucifer nearly rolling his shoulder just to dodge the next strike.

He’s not quite sure how he should process that particular piece of information, but currently it only serves to fuel his burning desire to crush his opponent.

“It makes no difference to me,” he states, and backs off before being too close to Diavolo’s playful smile disarms him completely.

Diavolo follows him like a predator, the first bead of sweat collecting on the slope of his chest as he hefts his blade in one hand.

It would surely be the ultimate disgrace to the Celestial Realm if he, the archangel Lucifer, were to be defeated by the likes of a demon. Royalty or not, this will have to be finished and soon.

Perhaps there will be no holds barred, after all.

Lucifer gathers the centre of his celestial garb in a fist, the white juxtaposed against the black of his gloves as he draws them over his head. The odd sight of an angel disrobing makes Diavolo pause and unabashedly stare at the skin-tight ensemble that leaves Lucifer’s shoulders and hips enticingly bare.

He’s still staring when Lucifer’s radiance suddenly increases twofold, then three; the angel has always had his natural light, but it’s becoming so bright it’s on the cusp of pain.

The first pair of wings unfold, followed by a second and third, all unfurling like the opening of a paper fan. 

Diavolo doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything like it.

His jaw falls open with a gasp at the blinding brilliance of white feathers, and when he licks his lips, he tastes the power that exudes from Lucifer’s very state of being.

The point of a silver sword comes for him at the speed of lightning and it’s all Diavolo can do to close his mouth and deflect the brunt of it.

And again it returns with a swiftness he can now no longer match, his attention drawn away by the mesmerizing, glorious light of Lucifer’s form.

“My lord,” Barbatos groans.

The end of Lucifer’s sword stops squarely at the gap between Diavolo’s ribs.

Protected only by skin and muscle, the upward path to a blade through his heart remains unsullied by the archangel’s grace alone.

Diavolo continues to gape at him, words locked in his throat and traitorous limbs unwilling to obey a single command.

Lucifer can’t for the angel in him remember when he last saw a demon stare into the face of death while looking so… smitten.


End file.
